Admirable Lies
by roberre
Summary: His real death had been a slow process, spanning the course of his lifetime. Instead of one set event and time, his downfall had happened slowly. As a tree being felled in the forest, he had been chopped away, a little at a time. Norrington.
1. Part One: Façade

**Disclaimer: **The usual, with fries on the side. I don't own anything except my ideas, and I can't sell those without the rights to PotC, so I'll just have to deal with it. xD

**Author's Note:** Thanks to Tammsla, my beta reader, for... beta reading. And to my pal Fae2135, who izzz amazing. This is my first potc fic, and helpful hints/tips/ reviews are love. AND, I'm finishing this fic this time! For real! xD

Perhaps the most shocking insight was not that he hadn't died by Bootstrap's hand, but that no one else on board seemed to have realized that crucial fact.

There were no cries of 'The Admiral lives!' only hushed proclamations to the contrary; the crew could hardly dare to hope that such a deed had been committed, yet they could evidently not bring themselves to believe otherwise. Why should they? The evidence was clear before them. Lured to the scene by Bootstrap's mad ravings, a number of the men who crewed the _Flying Dutchman _had seen what they thought to be a murder. The sharpened spar had indeed been plunged into James, splintering on impact so violently that it left no question of the damage it had done. He had toppled against the rail, sinking down in defeat, face mirroring the pain he had to have been experiencing.

Even Davy Jones himself had proclaimed the death, asking the late Admiral the question of whether his very near fatality should be prolonged another century in exchange for his freedom. Bound to the ship for a hundred years. James hadn't answered with words, instead choosing actions to define him, as had been his custom in life. He stabbed Jones and sunk down, breathing no longer. Finding no pulse, the fish-men had dumped him over the rail as meal for the ocean dwellers. He had hardly hit the water before a rousing hurrah broke out among the crew.

But it was all a façade.

His real death had been a slow process, spanning the course of his lifetime. Instead of one set event and time, his downfall had happened slowly. As a tree being felled in the forest, he had been chopped away, a little at a time. Small deeds, little decisions, minute fears and woes, each contributed to his eventual defeat. The first and final axe-strokes had been plunged by Elizabeth Turner.

xxxx

"_Take care of her."_

_And with that, the Governor started up the stairs, leaving James and Elizabeth alone on the deck. Not that they were ever truly alone, with the bustling activity of the sailors all around them, but the men were well-trained, and knew not to bother their beloved Captain and Commodore when he was dealing with more… personal matters. _

"_Elizabeth." James greeted her passively, holding out his arm. Waiting until she placed her hand on it, he walked forward to the railing that separated them from open waters. "I'm- concerned that your answer _

_was perhaps…" his voice faltered. For a moment, he fumbled for words, grasping at straws in a sorry attempt to convey his apprehension to the one woman who could unnerve him with so much as a smile. However forced it might have been. His gaze reallocated wildly, from the horizon to the rail, the rail to the floor. He would have done anything to avoid making eye contact; he would have done anything to avoid this plaguing sense of honour, and to just take her words at face value. "… less than sincere." Finally finding his voice, Norrington forced it from his mouth just as he forced his green eyes to light upon hers of such a rich golden-brown. _

_Elizabeth Swann froze beneath his sight for a split second. A fraction of time, yet not short enough for her discomfort to escape the keen observation of the Commodore. It was her time to look away now, turning her sights towards the ground as she spoke. "I would not give my word lightly." Her usually melodious voice was monotone, stifled as if reciting a schoolbook lesson. _

_He cleared his throat, hoping his voice would not crack beneath the weight of emotion. "Yes, I understand," he assured her, removing any doubt that he thought her a liar. He swung his head upwards in an attempt to keep his composure, the action masqueraded as an obliging nod. He took a deep, shaky breath. Though no expert in the matters of love, James knew of her affections to young Turner, and that they were deeply returned. Only now that William had been captured did Elizabeth accept Norrington's proposal, a fact that threw a slightly dubious light on her motives. "But is it so wrong that I should want it given unconditionally?"_

_Elizabeth tore her gaze from the floor, lifting her chin, failing in her attempt to convince him of her words' truth. "It is not a condition," she muttered softly. "It is a request." The strained smile she had been wearing slipped into solemnity. She did not know, perhaps, that he would have granted her request, whether his was met or not. Silence lapsed, broken only by the sea slapping against the vessel and the creak of the rigging. "Your answer would not change mine."_

_Beneath his stony exterior, James's heart did a somersault. It pounded in his ears, filling him with futile hope. Only with great difficulty did he manage to continue breathing. For a moment, he gazed upon her as she stared out onto the endless sea of blue. She was truly stunning. As rumpled as she was from her experiences with the pirates, Elizabeth retained a beauty that could not seem to be contained. Her pale skin was kissed with the sun; her hair bleached a gold that cascaded down from her head in waves, rustling lightly with the steady breeze. Her delicate oval face, with full lips, a straight nose, and accented cheekbones revealed little of the ordeals she had faced, instead mirroring a kind of resolution. Even in a cotton slip, she displayed an inbred regality as she broke the silence, turning her head to give him a soft smile. _

"_You are a… fine man, James," she told him, gazing up into his stolid face._

_Involuntarily, Norrington's lips twitched up into a slight smile that refused to vanish, no matter how hard he tried to keep it hidden. The hard lines of his severe face softened, emerald eyes lighting up as his delight fed and grew, even as Elizabeth's face sobered. With great difficulty, James regained his composure, squaring his shoulders and nodding curtly in true naval style. "Well," he said, feeling like a fish out of water as he gulped in air enough to speak. "Very well," he repeated with a sense of finality, as if somehow her words sealed the pact between them. He was unable to keep up with his pretence of staidness for long. _

_Abandoning the formalities of his station for just a brief moment, he turned to face Elizabeth. Voice fraught with emotion, he whispered, "Excellent." And it was. He forced himself not to notice that her smile reflected none of the elation he felt._

xxxx

The water pressed in around him, filling his lungs and displacing the air that had previously occupied the great cavity in his chest. Bubbles streamed from his open mouth, and he lolled listlessly beneath the waves, eyes glassy and vacant as he struggled to peer through the murky darkness. It was silent; oppressively so, except for the rush of the sea in his ears, and the muffled crashes of cannon fire from above. The shadows of the two great ships blotted out any light, casting James into pitch blackness as they sailed above him, their keels and hulls only meters from crashing into him.

Seconds passed, stretching out into long, agonizing minutes of loneliness and apathy. The waters caused him to drift where they willed, pulling him along, shoving him in a continual downward spiral. He could have tried to swim, but his limbs were leaden. He should have attempted some drastic action, made some attempt to escape, but his mind was numb. Just like the rest of him. The moonlight pierced the waters, streaming down in fantastic rays that succumbed to the darkness before they reached the ocean's floor, but lit up the surface region brilliantly. The particles of sand and tiny creatures glittered like stars in the light, but such a serene vision only brought a harsher, more terrible pang of guilt and loss.

His hat floated somewhere on the surface, his heavy brocaded coat weighing him down, counteracting the buoyancy of the wooden spar through his stomach that would have sent him bobbing to the surface. James was suspended in time, in space, now venerable to the moon's revealing truths. Turning his head away, he squeezed his vibrant green-grey eyes shut against the picture of the light dancing across his skin, unable to look at himself. He knew why death would not take him, even now, when he deserved nothing but to perish, and he regretted it.

He regretted it all.

xxxx

_The night was tranquil. The gorgeous, silver light of the moon only halted by the occasional illuminated cloud that whipped across the inky sky, sending deep shadows flitting across the glittering surface of the water. He stared at the mesmerizing dance of light and darkness, face unreadable, as if carved out of stone. __Since childhood, the sea had enslaved Commodore Norrington, captivated him with her unpredictability, her danger, her serenity, and her beauty that never deserted her, no matter what her mood.__Her mood was almost playful now as the waves licked at the side of his ship, whispering sweet nothings into the ears of the sailors serving aboard it._

_The cool breeze chilled the sweat beading beneath the fabric of his white blouse, whisking it from his pale skin and mixing his musk with that of the salty ocean. Abaft of the main mast, his jacket and waistcoat folded neatly beside the towering post that loomed above him. His sword was in his right hand, fingers delicately gripping the hilt with an ease that hinted at his expert skill as he swung it through the air, testing its feel. Beautifully made, the weapon had been gift from the governor, fashioned by the hands of the man against whom Norrington now contested for the love of Elizabeth Swann._

_Ironic to no end, it was however one of the best blades that James had ever come into contact with, and he would therefore continue to use it despite his satirical musings. Its edge was keen, the hilt perfectly balanced. Not only practical, it was fair to look at, inlaid with gold and bound with gleaming leather. It sang as he thrust forward and parried invisible foes, his motions automatic, fluid, and technically sound. Each movement driven by a purpose, not a single step out of place or wasted. It was a ritual James followed as often as he could. Familiar to his crewmen, they gave the space and time he needed, only occasionally stopping to watch him with a solemn pride. _

_His heart roared in his ears even as he stopped, sheathing his weapon at his side and bending down to pluck his uniform from the deck. He breathed steadily, regulating the amount of air that flowed into his lungs, anxious to refuel his body after a vigorous workout. After wiping his forehead with his sleeve, an automatic habit James had never quite rid himself of, he slipped back into the formalities of his station with the same ease he used when shrugging on his jacket. The dancing light in his eyes cooled to a smoldering intensity, and he let out a heavy sigh._

_He felt eyes on his back, and he turned around, tugging his vest straight and doing up the buttons. Swinging his head upwards, he stared through the darkness, voice caught in his throat. It was Elizabeth. He felt suddenly exposed, hoping that the sudden flush in his skin would be attributed to his exertion, rather than his discomfort beneath her contemplative gaze. He cleared his throat, coaxing his voice to full functionality. He wished to inquire of how long she had been standing there, but instead turned his attention on her needs. "What may I do for you, Miss Swann?" he queried, careful to keep his tone level, betraying nothing of his self-conscious feelings._

_She smiled nervously at him and stepped out from the shadow of the mast, her pale skin glowing in the liquid silver of the moonlight."I-" she paused, suddenly frowning. She seemed to have forgotten the purpose for which she had approached him, but after a moment of internal reflection, continued the statement she had broken off. "I wanted to say thank you, for sending me these clothes." She plucked at the marine's jacket that hung off her delicate frame, tilting her head slightly as she gazed at him from a distance._

"_I regret, Miss Swann that I was not better prepared for you." He had not thought to carry a dress on board in case he actually did manage to rescue her. "Though I appreciate your gratitude." The commodore inclined his head to her, his throat suddenly dry and scratchy. He cleared his throat, unable to keep his eyes off of her. Even bedecked in the red uniform of a marine, she still took his breath away. He had striven to find a proper fit for her among his contingent of men, a difficult task, but had managed to come fairly close to her size. Though the sleeves hung past her gentle hands, the white tips of her fingers managed to peek past the cuffs. The jacket, blouse, and breeches were simply a touch too large. But they were dry, at least, and warm._

"_No, Commodore, don't apologize," she countered, pausing a moment. "You've done so much… for everyone. For me." She took a step closer, peering up into his face with a minute smile, seemingly torn between conflicting emotions. _

"_Miss Swann, it's really no trouble," he said hastily, uneasy at her proximity to him. "And please, call me James."_

"_James." She whispered the name quietly, as if testing it out for the first time. Though she had said it before, there was now a weight behind it. It seemed to mean something, flowing from her lips. "Yes, I suppose I will," she decided aloud, "but only if you call me Elizabeth." _

"_You drive a steep bargain," James conceded, managing to return her smile, if only just, "but I assent… Elizabeth." _

_xxxx_

He hadn't stopped saying her name since.

His mouth formed it silently, intoning the blessed word 'Elizabeth' like a mantra as he remained suspended in the eternal limbo between death and life. Never truly dead, never truly alive… never satisfied. Immortality was a great joke. He had known it from the first, but had intentionally blinded himself to the fact. Without death, there seemed to be no life. He was suspended in nothingness, his depravity now more literal by the void of water around him.

Cauterizing his heart against the wounds, he had only managed to stop the bleeding by searing it, scarring it, killing it. It was nothing more than a useless organ, now, not even moving, for it was not blood and oxygen that kept him alive. It was his mistakes that prolonged his agony. James had never been ignorant, but he had been foolish. He had been a bloody idiot, a slave to all of the vices he had hunted in the form of pirates. Disillusioned, distraught… there was no excuse for his behaviour, and now he was forced to face the consequences.

James finally moved, his long fingers lacing around the spar of wood that jutted through his stomach. He tugged, straining against its friction to liberate it. His muscles did not ache, his arms never tiring until they had succeeded in their quest. The wood drifted away, floating upwards and disappearing. Norrington shed his jacket, the heavy material sinking down into darkness in a flash of gold and navy. He 

tore at his wig, wrenching it from his head and pushing it away. It remained floating beside him for some time, leering.

He could shed his station. He could remove the past. But he couldn't escape who he was. He had built up incredible defences, towering walls and battlements to keep the inevitable pain away from his tender heart. But his good intentions had turned on him, and his walls were now a prison. Just as nothing could enter, none of his emotions were able to escape, until starved and withered within him. After so long in solitude, he was no long able to remember how it felt to laugh, or cry, and the powerful sensations of the outside world were terrors to him.

He wanted freedom, but was too afraid to take the next step towards it.

He had always been afraid.

xxxx

_Of all the emotions James felt, he was most determined to ignore the gripping terror that pierced his heart. His face reflected only determination as he hastily surveyed the carnage around him, leaping onto the deck. The enemy that had invaded his ship was not of this earth. Walking skeletons, tattered rags only half covering their garish bones slaughtered his men, immune to the death that the blades should have delivered. They were spectres that had marched out from the mouth of hell, demonic and cruel. But they were still pirates. _

_James could deal with pirates._

_He cocked his pistol and aimed. The weapon sparked, and recoiled beneath the terrific crack of the exploding gunpowder, sending a ball hurtling through the air to bury itself in the nearest skeleton's head. Not that such a wound kept it down, but the creature was distracted long enough for one of James's men to sever its head from its body. Unfortunately, it was still living, writhing around and thrashing aimlessly. It was kicked off the side. _

"_Cut at the limbs and the head, men!" James ordered, now whipping out his sword and plunging into the fray. The deck was slippery with blood oozing from the corpses of naval men, but he splashed through the puddles of crimson, delivering his own swift justice to the murderers who now tried to decimate his ranks. He cleaved limb from torso, ruthlessly stomping on the flailing limbs once they toppled to the floor. Adrenaline raced through his veins, searing him with an acidic mix of elation and revulsion at his triumph over his foes. The threat to his life sent chills cascading down his back like a waterfall. Each step he took displayed the confidence he brought to his swordplay. _

_Still, they would not die._

_James bested them at every step, yet they continued to come. The crewmembers around him were not faring nearly as well against the immortal fiends, and by now the cries of the wounded and dying were nearly louder than the clang of metal on metal. Sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead, slipping out from beneath this wig and stinging his eyes. He was fit, but those he fought were untiring. Unflagging. Unwavering. Until the dull rasp of sword on bone turned into something quite different._

_A wet, sickening sound greeted James's ears, and he wrenched his blade from the suddenly human pirate, staring at the bloodied blade with a mix of curiosity and relief. He swallowed hard, and watched as his enemy fell at his feet, the first of the pirate blood mingling with that of the navymen. Seeing their fellow fall, the attackers surrendered. He fixed his stern look back on his face, anger and victory in his gaze as he lifted his sword to the sky. "The ship is ours."_

_xxxx_

When James was pulled up onto the ship, he noted with no small degree of irony that it belonged to the East India Trading Company. They were disillusioned and in a rather frantic state, and for a few minutes, Norrington hadn't even been sure that they would pick him up. But they had, and he was grateful for the break in swimming. Thankfully, they asked few questions, not bothering to question their new arrival lest it interrupt their flight.

Playing the part of a man who had been stranded in the sea for some time was no challenge. It wasn't difficult to pretend that his lungs were weakened from gulping down so much water, or that his limbs were leaden with exhaustion. He had seen it far too many times, and had come close to truly drowning on numerous occasions. Like reliving a memory, James slipped fluidly into the role, experienced from his years as a commanding officer at putting on a rather convincing façade.

It was unsurprising that none of the men recognized him. They had probably served under many officers in their day, and this particular ship may never have actually seen the face of the Admiral they obeyed. Shivering, moaning, and coughing, without uniform or any indicator of his rank, James probably not have been recognized by anyone but his closest compatriots, and most of them were dead. After two days of remaining silently in the hammock he was given, the time seemed right to venture out.

Haggard, pale, with closely cropped brown hair and borrowed clothes too big for him, he didn't cut a very impressive figure. He didn't want to cut an impressive figure, and it was only because the captain of the ship was an honourable man that he answered James's questions at all. It turned out that the armada of the EITC had dissolved, fleeing with their tails between their legs like so many whipped curs. The combined might of the _Pearl _and the _Dutchman _had destroyed the _Endeavour_, and with its flagship gone, the fleet Cutler had painstakingly raised abandoned their quest.

Before he had been dropped off at the port of Kingstown, Norrington had gathered just one last bit of information: Jones was no longer in station, instead, William Turner.

He felt for Elizabeth. Unable to be with the one she loved.

James understood first-hand how very much such a blow would hurt.

xxxx

_Everything about him hurt. _

_Not just his aching muscles, or the inflamed gash that stung across his ribs, but his very existence brought him agony at every front. He stared blankly down at the list of names before him, holding the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and kneading it mercilessly to try to dispel the headache the plagued him. His temples throbbed. Barely able to focus on the words through the involuntary tears that sprang to his reddened eyes, Norrington sighed heavily. So many casualties._

_Many of them were men he had served with for months, or even years, others just boys that had no business dying so young. He stared up into the cloudless sky, feeling exposed beneath the silvery light of the moon. Though the fighting was over, there was still much to be done. Lined up in neat rows along the deck, the bodies of the fallen were being sewn up into sacks of sailcloth by haggard members of the crew who were still fit for duty after the battle. Other men were cleaning, covered in grim up to their elbows as the scrubbed away at the bloody decks. The prisoners had been led to the brig already, and their terrific yells echoed hollowly about the bowels of the ship. _

_James's duties were nearly endless, and he doubted that he'd get much sleep in the days to come. He had to write letters to the families of the men who'd died beneath his command, but he didn't know if his hands would be steady enough to even begin such a monumental task. Now that the threat of the pirates was over, he would go ashore to the island to retrieve Mr. Turner and Mr. Sparrow as he had promised Elizabeth. Now that the threat was over, he would certainly fulfill his promise._

"_Lieutenant Gillette," Norrington called, rising from his seat on an overturned barrel to get the attention of his fellow officer. _

_The man halted in his tracks and saluted, awaiting orders. _

"_Would you kindly inform Miss Swann that she may freely roam around the ship with no further cause for worry, and that I will be returning with Mr. Turner within the hour."_

"_Aye, sir." _

_Folding the paper that documented the names and ranks of the deceased, and tucking it away neatly in a pocket hidden in the inside lining of his uniform jacket, James made his way to where a rowboat and a handful of marines were waiting for his orders. He stepped into the boat, and was just about to give the command to lower it into the water when Gillette stormed back onto the deck, waving his arms and shouting rather inarticulately. _

_Apparently, Elizabeth was no longer in the room._

_Norrington sighed heavily, torn between great amusement and frustration that his future wife would disobey such direct orders that were only given for her safety. He opted for amusement, but only internally. Her fiery spirit was, after all, one of the reasons he was so enamoured with her. Turning with a solemn face to one of the men beside him, Norrington offered the marine a tiny smile._

"_You've been relieved from your duty, soldier. We are rather in need of the extra space, it seems." The man responded with a salute and climbed from the boat. "Williams," remembering the name, Norrington addressed him directly, "please send a second boat after us. I believe it may be advantageous. You never know what one may find in a pirate's lair, after all." This time the man's face split into a grin, and he nodded, catching James's drift. "That will be all, thank-you." And the tiny rowboat hit the water with a quiet splash._

_The journey to the island was made in silence, the morose air that had hovered over the ship following its commander. Despite the small levity he had offered to the marine, Williams, he was in no way forgetful of the great loss his crew had suffered. It had been a victory, but there was no victory without bloodshed, and it had been at a great price. He saw the men sitting around him the boat were quite pleased to be alive, even a little bit glad to be off the ship and away from the lifeless bodies lying on the deck, and he didn't blame them. He wouldn't have stopped them if they felt like talking, or laughing, or even joking. The worst was over, and they had cause to be glad._

_But instead, they seemed to notice his solemn air, and strove to adhere to the standards he set by his silence. They rowed their boat through the cave, along the stream that was littered with gold and into the rather large harbour that rested in the middle of the hoard of pirate treasure. Even James was momentarily stunned by the sheer number of the valuables that were piled everywhere, but duty soon overtook awe, and he sprang from the boat with his men at his side to slap Jack Sparrow in irons, collect Elizabeth and the blacksmith and bring them all back to the _Dauntless_. _

_It was rather a sober affair. A long search of the premises were conducted, and when James was absolutely sure there were no more pirates hanging about- no more live ones, in any case- he and his men gathered up some of the loot and began to load it into the second boat. In addition to the initial amount, he took enough to give to the families of the deceased. As if gold could be any recompense for the lives of the brave young men who had fallen. But it was a start, at least. Enough to get them through the tough times now that the primary bread-winners were unable to provide._

_James's men filed in and out of the cave carrying armfuls of the treasure, but their journey soon became one directional, leaving him alone in the cave. The corpse of Barbossa lay nearby, a constant sentry, as if guarding the treasure he had earned even in death. James felt a sting of jealousy that he would never see the man hang, but a dead Barbossa was better than a live one, no matter how he died. It seemed that hell would have a difficult time spitting him out a second time. _

_Bathed in the stream of pale moonlight, the chest of cursed Aztec gold seemed all the more ominous, a testament to the cruelties of the pirates who had used it for their own selfish gain. Keeping Barbossa's crew from justice, from death, the gold had been James's greatest enemy, and he hated it. But he didn't dare leave it. For it someone else found it… he didn't even want to think about the consequences. _

_The sun was creeping up over the edge of the horizon when Norrington finally made his way back to his ship, locking the chest of coins in his cabin for safe keeping until he could otherwise dispose of them._

_xxxx_

It was daytime, now. It had been daytime thrice already. His journey to the small island had taken that long. Though he moved constantly, his arms and legs never once faltering in their continuous struggle against the water, he had been far from it, and dearly without a ship. And he hadn't wanted anyone to follow him. Sodden, he pulled himself upwards, his long fingers seeking the cracks in the rock face as he fearlessly scaled the fantastic cliff. The beach dwindled into a tiny strip of golden sand below him, miniature palm trees blowing in the wind. Already he was hundreds of feet high, but he pressed on. He soared skywards, like the rest of his life should have.

Norrington had always possessed potential. He was the centre of high expectations, a pillar that supported the enormous and sometimes ridiculous dreams that others had for him. He thrived beneath the pressure of his rank and station, excelling in his command. But instead of being satisfied with what he had done, his 'potential' only ever increased, until he was somewhat less of a man and somewhat more a god. People looked up to him as if he were flawless. Whether they liked him or not, they saw him as an ideal rather than a person, and the line he walked became thinner and thinner. If he fell from his pinnacle, he wouldn't only bring himself down, but the dreams that other people had latched to him. Believed by some to be almost perfect, it was simply a greater disappointment when he proved them wrong.

Burdened down by years of heightened prospects, when James finally had given way, it had been a messy affair. It wasn't a clean break, but a splintering, shattering fall that demolished everything he had ever stood for. His morals had crumbled beneath him, just as the rock beneath his fingers now gave way 

under his weight. He had fallen as hard and fast as he now fell. Spread eagle on the beach in a depression of his own making, James reflected bitterly that it hadn't hurt at all. It was hard to hurt a dead man.

xxxx

_Though he outwardly appeared as he always did, immaculate and stern, James felt dead inside._

_He cursed himself for entertaining false hopes, for dreaming that Elizabeth would chose him over the Turner boy when the time came. He had known it was too good to be true, that she loved the blacksmith, but he had blinded himself to the fact at her insistence and his own fear of rejection. But she had shown her true colours, and the image of her lips locked against William's haunted him. The fault was his. He had done too little too late to prove to her that his affections were genuine. By that time, another had won her heart. _

_He cursed himself for not putting a stop to his foolish attempts at love before they had surfaced, for not asking for another post somewhere far from Port Royal the moment he had found himself attracted to the fiery governor's daughter. For not doing anything to either halt or forward adoration's advance, until it had taken its own course and left him alone. But he hadn't, and however hard he fought to ignore his pain, it consumed him. However hard he struggled to distance himself from the chest of Aztec gold, it too consumed him._

_He had been meaning to obliterate it. Each hour he had looked at it, he had meant to destroy it. Those cursed coins were evil, a threat to the citizens of the British –or really any- empire. Men would always try to reap the benefits of evil, twist it and attempt to harness it for their own gain, and James didn't feel like giving his enemy such an advantage. So he was to destroy them… except that there was something beautiful about the way they shone in the light of the setting sun. Something… entrancing about the web they threw around his mind, reeling his thoughts to dwell on them._

_Promises. Promises of immortality and glory, but most tempting of all, numbness. Blessed relief from the pains and pleasures of life. Nothing to distract him, nothing to take away from his duty, his job. Glittering like stars in his grey-green eyes, each of the leering skulls etched in gold seemed almost eager to be drafted into service. But he didn't dare take them. Or did he? Standing upon a barren strip of land with no witnesses around, it seemed a very real, intriguing prospect. _

_Tired of being hurt and used, of enduring the derision of those who did not share his views on how matters should be handled. He was fed up with stuffy aristocrats who gave their opinion as law, when they knew nothing of justice. He was tired of life. James did not believe in suicide and being neither living nor dead seemed a reasonable alternative. He thought of his morals, of his duty, but most of all of Elizabeth. His morals had got him nowhere, and Elizabeth brought him only agony. What did he have left but to serve? And if so, why not serve to the best of his ability._

_Could he not offer more if he reserved nothing –needed nothing- for himself? Better to everyone alive rather than dead, for he knew of no beneficial dead men, there was no reason that he should not invest in extra security. He was compromising his values, he knew. He was setting himself up for destruction, for nothing good could come of his actions. But he was weakened, and he was unwilling to suffer any more on behalf of a woman. So he reached down into the chest, and plucked a solitary coin from its depths._


	2. Part Two: Duties and Matters

He stood once more beside the river, swearing as he had sworn every time before that it would be the last. His spade was stuck in the dirt behind him, the sand caked to his wet clothes a testament to his work in extricating the chest from the ground where it had been buried. It hadn't been difficult to remember the exact location, for though James had left no sign or direction to its whereabouts it was hardly a thing he could forget. Even if he wished to do so, it was engrained in his mind forever. He pushed off the heavy stone lid and gazed ruefully down at the familiar leering faces of the Aztec gold coins. There was a time when they had not been a part of his life, and he wished that it could be so again.

He longed for redemption. For a clean slate. For just a brief reprieve from the living hell he had condemned himself to. In some ways, it was so very attainable. All he needed was to drop the coin into the chest with a small amount of his blood and the curse would be lifted. But there were other matters, other deeds that would remain with him forever. Some ghosts would never leave, and others would only fade with time. Taking that first step in the right direction was only the start of a long journey.

James slid the small knife from his belt, and pressed it to his left palm, adding to the latticework of white scars already marring his hand. One more cut, one more permanent reminder of his failures. But this would be the very last time he would have to brand himself a pirate, for he would be a pirate no longer.

The reddened coin fell from his hand to meet its brethren inside the chest, and James gasped. Suddenly liberated from the curse, he was overwhelmed by a deluge of sensation, each one familiar but seeming brand-new. The warmth of the sun on his back, the gentle kiss of the wind through his tousled brown hair, the scents of the island; misty floral perfumes mixing with the salty sea brine and the distant smell of smoke, all carrying a unique beauty that had somehow been lost in familiarity but was now making an overdue comeback.

He couldn't help but laugh. The chuckle swelled in his throat, building and escalating until it became a fantastic overflow of joy he was powerless to check. He was filled with the pleasures of simple things, like the gritty sand beneath his toes, the spray of cool water as the wind shook left-over raindrops from the broad leaves of the trees and spattered them against his face.

Simple pleasures reminiscent of hope.

xxxx

_James had hoped to outrun the hurricane. It had been a fool's chance; blinded by his need to catch Sparrow, solely devoted to that one aim, he had determined to risk it. The _Dauntless_, pride of the English Navy, had found itself thrust into the midst of the most wrathful storm James had witnessed in his years of service. It raged about them, buffeting the vessel with torrential rains that attempted to drown all the men even when they weren't being plunged beneath the gigantic waves that crashed continually down upon them. Norrington felt nothing, more cut off from his men than he ever had been before. _

_The drumming of the fat, heavy drops of water did not beat his shoulders like fists as it did to the others on deck. He felt no pain as the hurricane whipped the sea against his face, no stinging of salt in his eyes. He was stuck in an unnatural sort of calm, unable to feel desperation if he tried; his fear rooting only in the knowledge that he was now completely sidetracked from his mission. That Sparrow would be getting away. Unable to die, there was no adrenaline racing through his veins, and it took him a moment to fully __comprehend the gravity of the situation as the ship groaned beneath him, reaching her limits as the strain of the storm began to take its toll._

_He was too confident, too secure in his own safety to completely realize that others had not his advantage. That everyone around him would simply drown, while he survived to see yet another day. A sharp pain clawed at his heart, a belated emotion that was accompanied by the knowledge that the terrible cracking and splintering of wood around him was a death sentence to his men. _

'A captain always goes down with his ship'_, he mused bitterly as water poured in over his head, smothering him in an all-encompassing blackness__. And he did go down; further than anyone could ever comprehend. Burdened with the Aztec curse, he sunk beneath miles and miles of crushing water, hardly able to move through the powerful currents. He was tossed about like a leaf beneath the sea; he droned on for an eternity, unable to feel, but able to feel entirely too much. _

_He didn't know how long he was beneath the waves, but when he finally opened his eyes and let himself observe his surroundings he was confronted with one of the worst visions of his life. With a face as blue as his uniform, the swollen body of the late Lieutenant Gillette was his only companion on the desolate shores. The crew had undoubtedly all perished; yet James had cheated death._

_Death had its way of repaying such slights. _

_xxxx_

Though slightly fatigued from his efforts in reburying the chest, James was anxious to leave the small nameless island. He wasted no time in finding the skiff he had hidden in the thick underbrush and dragging it out. To the north lay the fantastic cliff he had scaled. The south was more of a sloping hill that led down to the water's edge, hedged in on either side by a wall of thick forest that covered most of the island's plateau. Remaining from his last visit, a veritable road paved with logs stretched out before him, offering an easy route on which he could pull the small craft along to reach the water.

It took a good part of two hours to make ready to set sail, gathering what edible provisions he could from the bountiful forests, as well as filling up his canteen with fresh water from the spring. He checked over the hull, the sails, assuring himself that every inch of the boat was seaworthy before setting out on 

the half day's journey to the nearest port, where he could catch a large ship to whichever destination he chose. He needed no charts, only the sun and the stars as his guides as his vessel cut across the glittering waters.

For once, every road was open to him. James Norrington was considered a dead man, and surely such news would have already reached the far corners of the empire. Either he could prove that news wrong, or take on a completely new identity and leave the legacy of Norrington where it fell. He could return to the Navy, take up his post, and be the feared scourge of the piracy once more… or he could slip quietly into oblivion as just another man. There were so many decisions to make, and as he sailed up to the dock, bathed in the orange-gold light of the sunset, he knew that he stood at the crossroads of his life.

He stopped by his old apartment, and entered it for the first time since signing on with Cutler Beckett.

He knew what road he had to take.

xxxx

"_It's the road I have to take, Governor, and I'm afraid that no amount of words will dissuade me."_

"_You can't blame me for trying, James. It… just seems a shame."_

"It is a shame." In those barely audible words rested the weight of hundreds of wasted lives. The statement was spoken with sense of finality meant to herald the ending of a conversation that had never needed to exist, that James had been attempting to dodge since the moment it had begun. Resigning one's commission was not supposed to be a philosophy discussion, yet Swann had somehow managed to turn it into just that.

However hard the Governor had tried to convince Norrington that it hadn't been his fault, James knew that he was guiltier than anyone could ever comprehend. Not waiting for the older man to try to make another stab at conversation, he turned to leave, as he had been meaning to do for the last half hour. He had nowhere to go, but anywhere was better than the office that had once belonged to ex-Commodore James Norrington.

"_There's nothing I can do?" the Governor inquired, taking a few steps towards the retreating man._

_James stopped in his tracks for but a moment. He didn't look back. "Just forget about me. That's the only thing you _can_ do."_

_Shrugging his hands deeply into the pockets of his overcoat, and tilting his hat over his face so that its shadow obscured his face, James stepped out into the bright sunlight and stalked hurriedly away from the concerned gaze of his old friend. He shifted his haversack over his shoulder, acutely aware of the broken man he had become. Acutely aware that of all the men on board the _Dauntless_, he was the last one who should have survived._

_He was a wreck, and he knew it. He hadn't eaten for at least a day, and hadn't managed to get a decent night's sleep for a considerably longer period of time. He felt miserable, but he did not go out of his way to remedy the situation. Indeed, James had broken the curse so that he could experience all the misery he so rightly deserved. And he fully intended his penance to fit the crime. _

"_James?" The voice that had once set his heart aflame now doused his spirits in frigid water. He didn't stop walking, instead picking up his pace to try to escape. "James, is that you?"_

_Eliabeth had always possessed a stubborn streak, which persisted despite Norrington's evident aversion confronting her. The sound of her footsteps quickened in response, and she drew up beside him, grabbing his arm. She scowled, and flicked his hat from his head to get a better look at his face. After a moment of scrutinizing his haggard features, for it seemed she was experiencing some difficulty in recognizing him without his wig and uniform, she smiled rather sorrowfully. "I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. For the loss of your ship. It's terrible-"_

"_Captain Sparrow still lives." James interjected dryly, pushing her hand off of his arm. _

"_What?" Her feigned surprise sounded almost genuine. She was well practiced in deceit, after all._

"_That's what you wanted to know, isn't it?" Norrington demanded, not trying especially hard to mask the bitterness that lingered in his flashing green eyes. _

"_Why would you think that?" She inquired quietly, shifting her weight between her feet. _

"_Please answer my question, Miss Swann. I am in no mood for games, and I have pressing-" he paused, searching for the right word to fill the space that 'duties' would have occupied, "-matters to attend to."_

_After a moment's silence, Elizabeth hung her head. "I was… curious," she admitted, folding beneath his acidic stare. _

_James nodded resignedly and knelt down to pluck his tri-cornered hat from the cobblestone street where it had fallen. He replaced it on his head, covering up his short, tousled brown hair. Unable to meet her gaze lest she discover the level of pain and grief that pulsed through his body, for the eye was indeed the window to the soul, James ventured one last question. "And are you not glad that I have failed in apprehending him?"_

"_I am," she said with a sigh, "if you want the truth. Captain Sparrow is a good man."_

_On most other occasions, James would have retorted with the fact that the 'good man' was also a pirate. But he had not the heart, as the pretty young woman who stood before him had already shredded it to ribbons. "I'm sure he is, Miss Swann," he offered sardonically, finally flicking his gaze upwards to light on her eyes for just a brief moment. Searching for something, for anything that could possibly resemble remorse or affections, he stepped away disappointed. _

"_Commodore?"_

_He pressed on towards the docks._

"_Norrington!"_

_James reluctantly stopped walking yet again, and turned to face Elizabeth one last time. "What is it you want from me, Miss Swann? Tell me, and I will do my best to oblige."_

"_I just- well, wanted to wish you luck with your… matters."_

"_And you with yours, Miss Swann." _

_James managed to reach the docks without another interruption._

_xxxx_

The breeze streamed in from the east, promising rain before the day was out. Judging by the clouds themselves though, little more than that.

The dreary morning rays of the sun seemed to fit the mood of the day perfectly. Weak, watery light shone down upon the citizens of Port Royal, causing them to wonder what the cause of such unusual weather could be. Had someone angered God? Was the King himself laying on his deathbed? Nearly every ill omen known to man sprung up in the worried conversations between neighbours. Such stories spread through the lower and middle classes like wildfire, invoking fear; the aristocracy just hid their apprehensions better.

Personally, James took a less superstitious view of the world. A man of reason, he naturally assumed that even the sunny Caribbean had its cloudy days. He'd been around long enough to see his fair share of them, and not once had he found the desolations of the inhabitants to be justified. It was so curious, how immediately the general populous jumped to the conclusion that the slightest negative change to the way of life was a consequence of some grievous sin. Often enough, what people didn't do mattered so much more than what they did. The silence of the headstone before him was a testament to the truth of that statement.

'Governor Weatherby Swann', it read, followed closely by a series of meaningless numbers describing dates that no one really cared about. Numbers wouldn't bring him back. It didn't matter when he died, or that he had barely reached a half-century old when he was taken. What mattered was that, 'beloved father and governor' or not, his face wasn't to be seen again on this earth. What mattered was that he was gone. What mattered was that Norrington hadn't saved him.

xxxx

_James couldn't get anything to matter to him any more. _

_He felt completely hollow, and he strove to fill that void with a mixture of rum and guilt. Nothing seemed to remain long enough in the hole to make a difference, but the vile drink and the blazing emotion were easiest to obtain, so they were the logical choices for drowning his sorrows. And what better place than Tortuga to wallow in self-pity? It was cheap, it was dirty, and no one asked too many questions as long as the bills were paid._

_He hadn't originally intended to remain there long, but time seemed to have different plans. His guilt thrived in the unfamiliar territory; long stifled beneath his iron will, his emotions roared to life, the negative ones feeding off of his less than immaculate surroundings and taking over. Revenge. Anger. Bitterness. Shame. Never allowed much headway before, they took advantage of James's weakened state, consuming him. Without the will to escape from the metaphoric mire, Norrington was but a shell of the man he had prided himself in being._

_Without the will to live, he simply existed. Days, weeks, months rolled by, and at each step, he only sunk in deeper. At first, it had just been a drink before he went to bed, an aid to help him sleep through the night. He would work at odd jobs around the city, or occasionally on one of the less piratical ships as a deckhand for a week or two. But the longer he was there, the more help he needed in sleeping. The more help he needed in sleeping, the more he sought in the daytime, until he had frequented the local taverns enough that his face was recognizable by the barkeeps. Until he didn't even need to speak before a bottle of rum was handed him. _

_Not that the face that was recognized was anything like the face those at Port Royal would have known. It wasn't the face of a Commodore, the proud, noble expressions of an officer in His Majesty's Royal __Navy, but the face of just another scallywag. His parents would have been ashamed. _Anyone _who saw him would have been ashamed._

_Downing another swig of rum, James winced as the pungent liquid seared his throat. His head felt packed and heavy, as if someone had deliberately jammed rags in through his ears in an attempt to muddle his thoughts. Unfortunately, it was not an unfamiliar bleakness. He sighed profoundly, squeezing his eyes shut against the bedlam that raged around him. He was not yet drunk, but it was only a matter of time. _

_Already the noise was pounding at his ears, threatening to send him spiralling into a ferocious migraine if he didn't do something soon. Either pass out from the drink, or move to somewhere decidedly quieter. Seeing as he had an almost limitless supply of rum right in front of him, he opted for the former option, as he did most nights his melancholy was too powerful to bear. Inevitably, he would regret it the next morning, when the light was garishly searing and he was unable to do anything except reflect on the nature of his hopeless situation, but it would be at least a momentary reprieve. _

_He was wearing his old jacket. It seemed only fitting that the formal uniform should be dragged through the mud with equal vehemence as the rest of his miserable life. Fumbling for his pocket in the darkness, for there seemed no good reason to open his eyes and remind himself of the appearance of the dingy tavern, James fished out a coin. By the feel, he was nearing the bottom of his funds, and would dearly need to pick up another job if he wanted to continue this frivolous lifestyle without delving into his savings. He groaned audibly, but wondered if it would not be for the best. _

_He was living proof that the idle mind was the devil's playground, and perhaps a distraction other than drink would do him good._

_xxxx _

If gloomy days were punishment, why wasn't every single sunrise hidden by thunderheads? Why not blot out the sunset with a hurricane? Why wasn't every picnic poured on, and each afternoon stroll darkened with haze? Because gloomy days weren't so much a punishment, as a reminder. 'This is what life could be like, every day, all the time' it seemed to imply. 'Be thankful that it's not.' A threat, perhaps, a strategy so that the sunny days were not taken for granted, or even just a natural part of life… whatever days like this were, they weren't punishment. However, it was inevitable that days without 

sun lacked cheer, and when cheer was lacking, guilt thrived like a parasite.

Maybe that was why he was here now… he needed to feed, fuel, and stoke his guilt like a blazing fire. Without it, his heart would become like ice, cold and unfeeling. He would be free from pain, but he would also be free from everything that characterized a decent human. No, he needed to be raw and venerable. Bleeding freely, willingly, so that the importance of his greatest errors and triumphs were not allowed to become stagnant and dull with time. Some things were never meant to be forgotten, and visiting the grave for the first time engrained that on Norrington's mind.

He knew that really, the bare patch of grass before the granite slab was of little true importance to the Governor's legacy. Weatherby had never accomplished anything great on the exact location of his grave. His body was not even buried there; James assumed it was resting somewhere on the bottom of the ocean. This site held significance solely for the sake of the living. Cemeteries around the world were only really there for the comfort of those who had yet to die and be buried there themselves. They provided a place for those still trying to come to terms with their memories and their sorrow to do so with the acceptance of society. If a man began to cry at a gravesite, it was condoned, but anywhere else, and he was condemned.

James was as close to tears as he had been in a very long while.

xxxx

_If he were any lesser man, the very irony of the situation probably would have reduced him to tears. _

_James Norrington, scourge of piracy, was serving as a deckhand on the _Black Pearl_, under the command of Captain Jack Sparrow. He wanted to laugh, to scream and shout and rail against the skies, but all he could justifiably do was blame himself and those around him. Not to mention scrub the deck as he had been commanded. Though his talents would undoubtedly have been better used at the helm, or even amongst the rigging, it seemed to please Sparrow to have him on his knees like a dog, swabbing down the filthy planks of his equally filthy ship. Jack hadn't seemed to really believe that Norrington would obey, but when James signed on to do something, he completed it to the best of his ability._

_Even when it meant slaving through the night. _

_Armed with only a bucket of seawater and a scrubbing brush with harsh, stiff bristles, James wasn't expecting anything grand to come of his backbreaking labour. It wasn't, and would never appear to be anything but a dingy pirate vessel. Norrington wasn't holding any fanciful ideas that he would somehow be rewarded. He just worked. The constant, rhythmic motion of his body was soothing despite the strain on his muscles, which were beginning to cramp._

_Applying as much pressure as he could to the brush, he struggled against the grime, striving to pry it away from the stronghold it had taken some time ago in the grooves of the worn planks. Tensed with the strain, the tendons in his powerful arms stood out like knotted ropes, working furiously in tandem with those in his back to scrub in the most efficient way possible. He had deserted his shirt long back, content enough with basking in the moonlight that he had once hidden so vehemently from. _

_He glowed brightly, the thin sheen of sweat on his pale skin illuminating him like a ghost. He was surrounded everywhere by glitter, the silver light pouring from the sky gifting every drop of water around him with new life. Reaching the bow, James stood back to observe his handiwork. He leaned with his back against the rail, arms resting along it. For just a moment, the deck of the pearl was a sea upon the sea, gleaming and beautiful even as the other deckhands trod upon it uncaringly. None of them even noticed what they were stomping on, except for one, who made her way over to him._

_For a moment, James toyed with the idea of leaving, of slipping down below deck to take up his hammock and avoid the very painful encounter he knew was to come if he remained. Elizabeth Swann, as his own personal siren, was drifting ever closer to him. A sizable part of him wished with all his being that she would just leave him alone. It wasn't necessary to kick a man when he was down. But she drew closer, and though she had not opened her mouth to speak, her song entranced James._

_He recalled what he had told her that afternoon, and felt suddenly exposed. Without his uniform as a barrier between them, he was simply a man and was subject to all the vices that men were susceptible to. _'There was a time when I would have done anything for you to look like that while thinking about me,' _he had told her. It was true, for the most part. He still would have done anything. _

_She drew up beside him, agonizingly close as she leaned against the rail in much the same manner as he, the sleeve of her jacket just brushing against his fingertips. "You've done a good job," she offered, her _

_tone somewhat apologetic. Apologizing for what, James could not fathom. His shirt was clutched in her fist, but she made no move to hand it to him._

_Inclining his head slightly as recognition of her compliment, James sighed heavily and let his head loll back on his shoulders, pointing his face up to the stars. He didn't meet her contemplative gaze, or give any inclination that he noticed her eyes running with surprise over his lean, muscled frame. She obviously hadn't expected a seasoned naval officer to have a body beneath all the layers of brocade._

_After a long while, she turned away, visibly flustered. She repeated a sentiment she had already established in an attempt to detract attention from her steadily reddening face. "Very fine work indeed, Mister Norrington." _

"_Yes, well I suppose it is JUST Mister Norrington now, isn't it?" he said after a while. _

"_What do you mean?" She asked, recoiling from his cutting words as if struck. She turned to him, head cocked slightly as she stared up into his face. Perhaps she was looking for the James she had once thought she'd known, trying to see past the beard, and the unkempt hair. She met his eyes, but was only more puzzled by the strange light of persistent affection, nestled between the bitterness and resentment, that flickered there._

"_Lieutenant Norrington. Captain Norrington. Commodore Norrington." He got louder and more firm at each recitation, squaring his shoulders and assuming an appropriate stance as he spoke. "One hardly expects one's life-long work to be torn away so suddenly. _That _is what I mean, Miss Swann. I am _just _Norrington. Simply James." No titles, no flashy additions. Just a man. _

"_Perhaps not." Her words were quiet, barely a whisper. The wind threatened to carry them away, but somehow they reached his ears even through the creaking of the rigging and the lap of the water against the side of the ship. He did not respond, unsure if she had meant for him to hear what she had said. But then she continued. "I don't think that-"she started a bit hesitantly, but soon regained the footing she needed to continue. "- I don't think that you could ever, really, be _just _James."_

_His curiosity got the better of him. "And how do you figure that?" he demanded._

"_The word 'just 'implies that there is nothing more to something than what meets the eye. That it is exactly what it appears to be. And… that's not James Norrington." She paused a moment, staring deeply at him. "The question is: Who is James Norrington, then?" She took a step forward and put her hand to the side of his face._

_Their eyes were locked for a moment. Unable to look away, James felt lost in her gaze, his heart ready to burst from his chest at any moment. A myriad of uncontrollable, unexplainable emotions tore through his veins, more powerful than any adrenaline he experienced during a battle. Her honey eyes glittered, unreadable, conflicted... and beautiful. Who was James Norrington?_

"_I… don't know." The words were out before he could stop them. The moment they left his lips, he regretted it. He stared down at the deck. "Thank you for bringing my shirt." Even before he was fully aware of his actions, James snatched his blouse from her hands and tugged it over his head. Something between them shattered by his action, and Elizabeth sprang away as if realizing how close she had truly been to him for the first time._

"_You're welcome," she muttered. "Sleep well."_

"_Oh, I doubt it," he responded dryly, before stopping and turning back for just a second. "But I'll try."_

_xxxx _

The former Governor of Port Royal had probably been dearer to him than most members of his own family. Even before Norrington had expressed interest in Elizabeth Swann as a wife, Weatherby had already begun to act in a fatherly manner towards him. Although the older man seemed so initially different from Norrington in his child-like view of the world, he also proved himself to be well grounded. Beneath his cheery exterior and almost chronic optimism, the Governor had revealed in himself a wisdom that few had the fortune to discover. He became a pillar of support for Norrington through the difficult times, as well as a kindly listening ear to a young naval officer who had never been able to share his troubles with another soul, before or since.

That was perhaps why he had been standing just outside the black iron fence surrounding the small 

memorial for nearly ten minutes, rather than going in and kneeling before it like most people. This touch of death was one of the most personal he had encountered, and it took guts to face it. Out of all the men he had seen fall, this instance hurt as much as a knife to the heart. He wasn't just grieving on behalf of Elizabeth, but rather honestly feeling the loss of a true friend and mentor. And to some extent, that loss was his fault. He hadn't done anything, and now others were paying dearly as he was for that inactivity.

Placing a slightly trembling hand upon the gate, James resolved to enter. It took only a few steps to reach the tombstone. As he neared, he could see that even the vibrant scarlets and yellows of the flowers rested upon the stone seemed lifeless. He doubted that his offering would be any different. Reaching into the folds of his black coat, he produced a velvet box, and held it a little awkwardly before him as he knelt down on one knee. He cleared his throat, and averted his eyes from the stone to the ground.

" I'm afraid that I- uh -I'm not very good at things like this. But I never-" his voice gave out momentarily, and he bit his lip, fighting past the choking emotion that threatened to strangle him completely. He managed to regain his composure, and continued. " I never gave anything back to you, though you offered me so much. So, though I suppose it's too late, I just wanted to let you know that… I think you helped this hopeless case about as much as anyone ever could." Blinking to moisten his eyes, which suddenly felt much too dry for comfort, James opened the box to display a gleaming golden medal that the governor had first presented to him at the promotion ceremony those few years ago. Back when his love for Elizabeth was like a dream yet to be fully realized, and the curse of the Aztec gold was still a superstitious legend.

"It's not much," he acknowledged, "but- well, there's nothing else."

xxxx

_There wasn't anything else he could have done. No other options._

_His actions were completely justifiable. Absolutely warranted. Without a shadow of a doubt, he had done nothing wrong._

_Then why did he feel so horrible?_

_The sickening, constant beat not his own perpetually haunted him, dogging his every step. His pulse thudded out of sync, almost erratically, as if rebelling against the proximity it was forced to keep with the unnatural heart that writhed and pounded within the hidden pocket of Norrington's jacket. Though the fish men had broken off their pursuit days ago, James still wanted to run, as hard and as fast as he could away from the iFlying Dutchman/i, from Davy Jones… and from himself. But a guard held his arm and all but dragged him into the room where Beckett sat. Only once the door was barred and Mercer hovered protectively at his employer's side was James released._

_Few words were needed between them. _

_James had traded a heart for a life._


	3. Chapter 3: Forgiveness?

(So, here's some more of the third part

If he died this very day, James knew that his life would be considered a tragedy.

He was determined to change that fact. It was his single goal, the driving force behind his existence, now that the fog had cleared and he saw his original hope at obtaining redemption as misguided and ineffectual. Receiving his uniform from Beckett had proven to be as shallow and empty as everything else he had ever tried, and once again Norrington found himself back at the beginning. Back at Elizabeth. And he had come to the conclusion that he needed her desperately.

All his attempts to forget her had failed, and he could not longer hope to pretend that his affections for her were over. The burning desire he felt, the adoration and admiration he reserved only for her, was more than some schoolboy infatuation that was dependent on feelings. There were times he found himself frustrated and angry with her, but his devotion never wavered. What James felt was love, unconditional, unending love. Any denial he had once entertained had been broken down, and he knew that his condition was hopeless. But he wouldn't have it any other way.

He had spent the week searching for any news of Elizabeth, his desperation to find her mounting daily. Truthfully, he was beginning to despair that his long days of inquiring after her would ever come to fruition. The former governor's daughter was an unpopular subject amongst the citizens of Port Royal. Her father had been dearly loved, and the news of her connections with piracy was seen as a crippling disgrace to his memory. Most people were quite content to act as if she had died along with Governor Swann, ignoring any hint of rumour that might have reached their ears.

Those who were inclined to share whatever information they possessed with a complete stranger were unreliable. Their news came from circles of gossip, word of mouth passed through the grape-vine by their 'aunt's step-son's brother' or some equally obscure connection. Much of what reached James's ears was pure fantasy, the tales of her kingship over the pirates escalating beyond belief to a ridiculous degree. But there were grains of truth in every lie, and he was determined to piece them together. However long it might take.

xxxx

"_How long will you be working for Cutler- Lord Beckett, Admiral Norrington?"_

"_However long it may take."_

"_However long _what _may take, James?"_

_Forgiveness. _

_But his mouth did not echo his mind's scathing retort, instead offering an answer that was somehow both more and less truthful at the same time. "I'm not sure."_

_The governor's heavy hand on his shoulder made James turn around and make eye contact with the man for the first time since the long minutes of silence that had preceded their last words. An ashamed scowl was fixed on the now-Admiral's face, his intense grey-green eyes trying to locate the earned disappointment in Swann's gaze… but he was unable to. All he saw was concern, pity, kindness, and, most baffling of all, hope. _

_He wondered how Weatherby could stare at him like that, without a scrap of jaded cynicism despite everything he had been through, with Elizabeth's running away to sea, the part of the powerless figurehead he was forced to play beneath Beckett's absolute dominance. If anyone had the right to be bitter, it was Swann. And yet he held his head proudly, going so far as to smile up at James and slip his arm around the taller man's shoulder in a paternal embrace that the Admiral could not hope to let go unrequited. How could he be proud of him, still? Why would he continue to show support for someone who was willingly serving beneath a tyrant, a pirate masquerading as a naval officer, a scoundrel pretending to be a gentleman? It was mind-blowing, for James had related his transgressions to the older man only moments ago, and was already forgiven. Perhaps had been forgiven before he had even opened his mouth._

"_Have you told Elizabeth?" Weatherby asked quietly as he drew James from the window and led him to a chair._

"_I haven't seen her since the Isla Cruces," he answered, sinking down into the offered seat with a low sigh."But that wasn't what you were asking, was it? No, I haven't told her. I doubt her reaction will be quite as favourable towards me as yours was. But I will tell her."_

_The Governor took a seat across from James, sitting down slowly, laboriously so that his motions betrayed the age his boyish eyes refused to display. Without his wig, his short grey hair thinning and sticking up in various directions, he cut an almost comical sight as he leaned forwards to plant his elbows on his knees, tilting his head with his chin in his hand to stare across the room as he addressed Norrington. "I know you will," he said with a smile, the melancholy twisting of his mouth the only evidence of his hardships that James could discern."Give her my love."_

"_I'm sure you will not need me to relay the message, sir," James stated formally. He fully intended to bring Elizabeth back to her father the moment he found her, or perhaps bring Weatherby to her._

_Weatherby shrugged and straightened, his sitting position short lived as he rose from his chair and grabbed his wig and jacket from the pile on James' cot where he had abandoned them upon entering the Admiral's quarters. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get back to that infernal paper work. And get some rest, James. You look like you need it," he ran his fingers beneath his own eyes to demonstrate the reasoning behind his last statement. _

_Frowning, James followed suit and probed at the dark circles beneath his eyes, twisting to fix his haggard reflection with a scrutinizing gaze as he stared at the mirror on the wall behind him. Though he was once again clean-shaven, his dark hair trimmed short in anticipation of the wig he would soon be donning, the governor was right. When he turned back to bid Swann goodbye, it became clear to James that he had already shown himself out. His whispered farewell spoke only to the back of the closed door. _

_James shook his head, taking Weatherby's advice despite the fact he knew he would never actually fall asleep, stretching out on his cot. He tugged his shirt off and replaced it with a blanket, curling up beneath it and shutting his eyes against the image of the leering Aztec coin that rested once again against his skin… burning where every other part of him was numb. But it would only be until he after he spoke to Elizabeth. He could not live -and he certainly could not die- without her forgiveness. Or at least without seeking it._

_xxxx_

Sometimes it seemed that seeking after Elizabeth was like trying to catch the wind.

However hard he worked, James could just not seem to make any headway. She continually slipped through his fingers and picking the grains of truth out of the horribly distorted mess of gossip was a near impossibility. Norrington knew that he would never find the answers he was looking for if he continued to be content with taking vague answers from those who really had no reason to know anything of consequence. He needed to be more active in his searching. Even if it meant revisiting Tortuga, revisiting the ends of the earth…

But, as it turned out, answers came to him.

"Why, if it isn't Captain Sparrow! Free as a bird, I see."

"That's a horrible joke, mate. And I'm only in town for a short while, so try not to let the entire world know. Unless you inform the ladies, in which case I may find it in my gracious heart to offer you pardon for your actions."

Though the men were not speaking very loudly, the familiarity of the second voice caught James' attention even as he attempted to feign interest in the completely falsified tales of piracy and the Pirate King that the street-side vendor attempted to convey to him. His attention was immediately diverted. Thanking the still-speaking man, cutting him off mid-sentence, Norrington stepped away and into the crowd lining the market, straining for another snippet of conversation. How he had managed to hear Sparrow in the first place was a mystery, for the streets were noisy and full of people.

Through the din of hawkers calling out their wares, gossiping women gathered around flower vendors, and the rowdy men leaving the taverns after a mid-day drink, James knew there was no way that he would be fortunate enough to catch a snippet of conversation a second time. But he had gathered a general bearing on the sound even in those few fleeting lines of conversation, and he pressed determinedly through the throngs of people, dodging and weaving and occasionally pushing right past them without so much as an apology.

Once Norrington had Sparrow in his sights, it was less a search than a hunt.

xxxx

_If there was one thing Norrington learned about his employer, it was that any search the man conducted would have been better termed as a hunt. There was never any doubt that it was only a matter of time before he sunk his teeth into his victim; that he was not so much seeking as pursuing. His intentions were always clear, his dominance established far before the trembling quarry was dragged before his feet. Lord Beckett never left any doubt of the roles played, in which he was the hunter and anyone else his prey. _

_Truthfully, the infamous Davy Jones was his bloodhound, and James was simply the man holding the leash._

_And what a dismal task it was. _

"_Get back! Give him some air!" _

_James brushed past Davy Jones and members of the crew, refusing to acknowledge the chill that started in his shoulder blades and slipped down his spine, attributing it instead to the stiff ocean breeze that whirled around him despite the fact he could not feel it. He had spent years hardening himself against such tales, of the locker and Jones himself, and to see the creature whose heart James had stolen was unnerving at best. But he squared his shoulders as he bent down to examine the corpse, needing only a fleeting glance to see that that man was not going to live. Already the light was fading from his eyes, a tiny trickle of blood pouring from his mouth hinting at severe internal bleeding. James pulled back, straightening and staring furiously at the small circle that had begun to gather around the dying man._

"_What happened here?" he demanded. "Did anyone see what happened?" His voice carried easily across the deck, commanding more heads to turn in his direction. Hated, loved, respected, feared; it did not matter, but when he spoke he expected an answer._

"_He broke his neck, Admiral," someone called._

"_Yes, I can see that." Though it was not a complete snap, evidently not severe enough to grant a quick and painless death, the man's head was twisted, his face fixed in agony as he struggled to fill his lungs. "But my question is still not answered." He scanned the faces nearest him, his hard grey-green eyes belaying none of the insecurities that plagued him while behind closed doors. Whether his gaze met that of a human, or the more grotesque, unnatural hybrid of aquatic creature and man, he did not flinch. He had his suspicions that Jones's crew had something to do with the matter._

"_Do you fear death?" The last syllables of the words were harshly spoken, enunciated so powerfully that it cut through the silence and immediately drew the attention of all. This time James did flinch, whirling around to see the captain of the _Dutchman_ leaning over the wounded man, whispering into his ear. _

"_Step away from him, Captain." James wondered if this was not some sort of twisted way of exacting revenge, picking off his marines one by one while he stood helpless to defend them. It was not the only time Jones and he had confronted one another, and this incident only an extension of the first._

"_Ah, Admiral. You're not going to deny this poor man a chance for redemption, are you? Look at him, the wretch."_

"_What you offer is not redemption. It is prolongation, nothing more." If anyone could honestly claim to know that, it was James. " I repeat: step away from him. That's an order." James's patience was wearing thin. He grit his teeth. His hand gripped tightly at the hilt of his sword and he pulled it from its scabbard. Though he knew it would inevitably do him no good, he pointed it at Jones, unwilling to suffer the creature's impudence any longer._

"_Then you are ordering him to die." Jones countered, ignoring the sword like the inconsequential piece of metal it was. The Captain could not die. _

_But then again, neither could James. "So be it. I will not have you tempting him with your false promises." The man, expiring slowly on the deck, would not fall as he had fallen._

"_When you serve on my crew one day, I will show you as the hypocrite you are, Admiral."_

"_We shall see."_

_Jones narrowed his eyes and gave a slow nod as if accepting James's words as a challenge. "Indeed we shall." Without warning, he slipped his tentacled hand beneath the man's head and braced his chest with his claw. With a jerk of the captain's arm, the man's neck snapped and he was dispatched. Jones subsequently stood and stepped away from the corpse, wiping his hands on his coat like he had touched some form of filth. "Are you satisfied?" he inquired, spitting salty seawater across James's immaculately polished boots with every syllable._

_Norrington spun around to leave, sheathing his sword in a single fluid movement._

"_Don't turn your back on me, James Norrington!" _

_James didn't respond. "Perform the proper burial," he commanded, pushing once again through the ring of people, dispersing them. "And then back to your stations."_

_xxxx_

Each step James took brought him a little closer to having Sparrow in his grip once more.

The pirate was not unaware of this, for every wary glance he sent over his shoulder inevitably connected with Norrington, who made no attempt to hide his intentions. However, without a wig or a uniform, without a beard or being covered with mud, he was a different incarnation of himself that Jack had never seen and was therefore not immediately recognized. Even as James drew closer, Jack did not risk breaking out into an open run, which would attract the attention of the minimal guard watching over the busy market, instead choosing to turn into the latticework of alleyways and side-streets that branched off from the main road.

A bad move on his part, for James knew every inch of Port Royal's map, and now there were simply fewer witnesses to contend with. Finally, fed up with this apparent stranger dogging his every move, Sparrow whirled around, his sabre left in its scabbard to avoid a fight if possible. It was not possible. James was quicker than the pirate, and though Jack could have easily fought off any lesser man, the short, violent scuffle ended up with Jack pressed against the wall, one of James's hand clutched onto his collar, the other occupied in pressing a naked sword-blade to his neck. "If you want your throat to be in working order the next time you visit a tavern, you will answer me plainly: Where is Elizabeth?"

Jack was taken aback by the question for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing and mouth twitching as he struggled to digest the implications of what was happening. James smiled wryly as the pirate came to terms with everything, evidently fitting the voice and the face with his memory of the past.

"Norrington. Seems you're... not dead. Now how'd you manage that, I wonder."

"The same as anyone else, "James responded. "But that is of little consequence. My question, if you please." Shifting his grip on his sword and adjusting it on Sparrow's neck, he never once wavered in his constant, condescending smile.

Jack eventually answered.

James gave him a twenty minute head start before calling the marines.

xxxx

_The marines were still struggling with the captured prisoners, but for a moment, Elizabeth was in his arms. For just a single, brief moment that was over far too quickly but felt as if it had lasted forever, she was pressed tightly against him, his name still on her lips. His arms were wrapped around her back, holding her, and though it did not last long, she was holding him too before dropping her hands to her sides and pulling away uncomfortably. He couldn't help but smile. He had feared the worst, Cutler Beckett's domination of the seas making it dangerous to sail on any pirate ship, and yet she was here, of all places._

"_Thank God you're alive!" he exclaimed. "Your father will be overjoyed to know you're safe." Not only her father would be overjoyed, as James's eyes spoke volumes of the relief he felt, his face unable- or unwilling- to display anything but the most potent delight. He had so much to tell her, and his smile slipped only for a moment as he thought of how she would take it. Already she was staring at him as if he had played some cruel joke on her, as if every single ounce of civility they had ever possessed had never existed. He deserved it, he knew, and yet something told him that it was not only his betrayal with the heart that put such a lifeless, pained expression on her face._

"_My father is dead," she said, her voice as quiet as the haunted expression in her honey eyes._

"_No," James snapped immediately, his expression slipping into shock. "That can't be true. He returned to England."_

"_Did Lord Beckett tell you that?" she asked him harshly._

_He wanted to return that it had been the Governor himself who had first expressed that desire to James just before the Admiral had set off to take command of the _Dutchman_. That Beckett had simply repeated what Weatherby had already told Norrington. But he couldn't help but remember the hollow smile the Governor had worn, the ever deepening lines in his face and the cruel smile that curled Cutler's lips when he assured James of the intentions he had to send Elizabeth's father back to the land of his birth. It couldn't be true, and yet Elizabeth spoke with complete confidence that it was true._

_James felt as if the _Empress_ was pitching as if in a storm. The deck felt suddenly unstable and he struggled to maintain his balance, tottering slightly on his feet. Constricted, his chest seemed ready to explode at any second, his usually strong limbs shaky and unreliable. He could feel nothing except the emptiness, but it weighed more heavily on him than a million pounds of water. And now Elizabeth was the Captain, and Jones was approaching her, still voicing his scepticism on the matter._

"_Tow the ship," James commanded sternly, regaining command of his voice just in time. "Put the prisoners in the brig, and the captain shall have my quarters." He half expected Jones to rebel, to continue walking towards Elizabeth, but the creature of the sea made no move to do so, sneering momentarily at James before stalking off to follow orders. _

"_Thank you, but I prefer to stay with my crew."_

_James was taken aback. He had betrayed her once; did she now expect him to throw himself on her the moment he offered her security? Was he as bad, or even worse, than the brutish pirates around her? _

"_Please, Elizabeth, I swear I did not know," he implored her. It was only out of concern for her safety that he was offering such an arrangement. Only for her. _

"_Know what? What side you chose? Well, now you do." She stepped back towards her men, and James winced. _

"_Five minutes, Miss Swann. That's all I ask," he reached out to place his fingers lightly on the sleeve of her oriental style garment, letting his shoulders slump and sighing resignedly as she pulled away from his touch. "I am afraid I will have to insist." James made no motion to pull her closer to him, instead ordering his men to take the other pirates to the brig. And then they were left alone, the silence between them no less tense for the creaking of sails and the thunderous booms of the cannons. Elizabeth's eyes were daggers, and James looked away, taking a few steps towards the railing, expecting her to follow._

_A moment passed, then two, and Miss Swann drew up beside him, her furious gaze now locked onto his boots as he stood immaculate and stern, one hand resting lightly on the wood of the rail. He stared out onto the sea, the silver clouds thickly meshed together so as not to let any unfiltered light escape, weakening the moon's rays so effectively that he was never plunged beneath one, so that any of his precautions to stay in the shadow of the sails were unwarranted. He had experienced too many conversations beside the rail of a ship, one as a fine man, one as a pirate… and now? He wasn't sure. But he knew what he had to do, and no amount of delaying the inevitable was ever going to make it any easier to say. _

"_Elizabeth," he half expected her to demand chastise him for the use of her first name, but she thankfully did not. "You must understand that, whatever you may think of me, I will only ever promise you one thing. That is this: I will never wilfully harm you. I am not saying that I will not hurt you, or that you will somehow escape pain, but whatever my intent, it was not to see you like this. It is a consequence of my foolish choices, but I would take it back if I could."_

"_They're just words, James! All you are is empty words! Words will not change what you did. Words will not bring my father back! You constantly profess some sort of undying devotion, and yet you have never once proven it. Will saved me from the pirates, not you. Even Jack saved me from drowning! You're so _honourable_, James." She said that like it was a curse, her face twisted in grief and fury. "You're all about duty and serving your country, yet you choose me over that every single time. And then you go on and on about how much you love me, and the moment you have a chance to go back to duty, you run for it. The worst thing is, you don't even know, do you? You think you're excelling at everything, when in reality you're just floundering around like a lost puppy."_

_Her words were getting increasingly hysterical, punctuated by sobs, and suddenly, with fists beating against him. James stood firm through the onslaught, though his face was a picture of his bleeding heart. She was hitting too close to the mark, and though he could not feel anything but the empty thuds, painless and dull against his chest, it could hardly have hurt him more if she was wielding knives in her hands. He made no attempt to stop her violence, letting her rage against him instead. When she was finished, she was barely aware of anything. Completely at her wits' end, she buried her face into his shoulder and sobbed._

_He let her stay as long as she needed, raising a trembling hand to stroke her hair and sooth her when she clung tightly to his vest. Her words were incoherent, muffled by the layers of clothes she was pressed against. But he did hear one thing, a quiet, heart-wrenching accusation. "You've never even kissed me, Admiral Norrington."_

_She was right. He never had._

"_Elizabeth, I-"_

_As if his words had brought her broken mind back to reality, she pulled away from him, drying her swollen eyes unceremoniously on her sleeve. "Your five minutes is up, James."_

"_But-"_

"_James… you have duties."He reached out for her, but she was already turned away from him, hugging herself in the light of the moon that he was still hiding from. He stopped before his fingers entered the silver, though he would have done anything to replace her arms with his. "And so do I. Admiral, please allow me to return to my crew." _

"_Of course, Captain Swann, if that is what you wish." _

"_It is," she replied without looking back at him. _

"_Very well," he replied. If that is what she chose, it was what he would give her. "Elizabeth?"_

"_Yes, James?"_

"_Do you forgive me?" Did she love him?_

"_I… I don't know."_

_Neither did he._


	4. Chapter 4: Choices

**A/N: Unless I decide to write an epilogue, this fic is DONE! –dramatic music- Thanks for reading, and a big HUGE THANK YOU to tammsla, who really made it readable. xD**

James's heart was a steady drum as he gave the sides of the horse a firm kick, gripping tightly with his knees as the animal broke from a canter into an all out gallop. Perhaps he had no right to push the horse so hard, especially given the lengthening shadows obscuring the already-dangerous road. Originally, it had not been so close to the edge of the cliff, where the grassy plateau ended abruptly and the only thing left was air. But time and weather had worn down the rock face. Now the single, winding path was a misplaced footstep away from the crashing waves, and James was a breath away from that fatal misstep.

The gelding snorted indignantly when James finally wheeled off of the main road. Because this new path was overgrown and filled with potholes, Norrington allowed the horse to ease into a more comfortable pace. The stiffness of his muscles was a testament to the fact that he had not ridden for some time. His legs, back, and neck ached furiously and were beginning to cramp from his long hours of relative immobility. He was far more comfortable on a ship, where he knew that he could coax the full speed out of the vessel without fear. This was a constant guessing game of how much abuse the horse could or could not take.

But there were no natural harbours near the secluded house that sat nestled just at the base of the hill, when the plateau and the jagged cliff finally sloped and evened out into a quieter beach and the endless plains disappeared beneath the boughs of leafy trees. Anything larger than a skiff would surely be grounded, anything smaller bashed against the rocks. The sea was too shallow, broken up into white froth for miles against the shoals and the reefs, already thoroughly battered by the time it lapped against the shore. It was the perfect place to hide, nigh inaccessible by sea and a fair stretch from anywhere by land.

Though it had been all but abandoned as Port Royal grew and the job of running it became more and more time-consuming, the house had been the Governor's summer cottage when Elizabeth was growing up. James had never been there himself, but as a Lieutenant he had received enough letters from the young Miss Swann that he almost felt he would be able to recognize every inch of the property. When Sparrow had divulged Elizabeth's location, James had not even needed to question the pirate's honesty. It would be too simple a lie, something so blindingly obvious that it had to be true. Without a shadow of a doubt, Norrington knew that Elizabeth would be there when he reached the house.

She had to be.

xxxx

_Elizabeth would be unharmed by the time James returned for her. She had to be. He would accept nothing less; any violator of his strict orders would be keelhauled and assigned to bilge duty whether they were still able to function or not. If one of the fish men were to blame, Norrington would personally hand them over to Jones for punishment. And they would be punished; or- so help him- he would shoot the heart and carry out the sentence himself. _

_Even as he paced across the deck he wondered why he was not by her side, watching over her even if she did not wish to take up his offer of safety and security. He wondered why he had not begged for her favour the moment she expressed doubts about his plea for forgiveness…and he wondered why he had not yet kissed her. Her scathing words echoed about in his head, each syllable stinging all the more potently for its truth. Everything she had told him was frighteningly accurate, as if she had peered into the secluded corner of his soul that even he feared to examine. _

_But if she knew him, she gave no indication that she had expected his next move. _

"_Come with me," he commanded, one step away from grabbing her by the sleeve and hauling her bodily out of the cell if she did not comply. "Quickly!" _

_Though she hung back until her brutish crew filed out of the small cell, Elizabeth complied when she heard the urgency in his voice. "What are you doing?" she demanded, her eyes only meeting his once he finally managed to choke out his next words._

"_Choosing a side."_

"_I think it's a bit late for that, James." One good deed was not enough to redeem a man from a lifetime of wickedness, it seemed. He winced at the irony of the words that pierced his thoughts, but he swallowed his insecurities down and ushered her out of the brig, following her closely. _

"_You are unharmed?" He asked as they climbed the stairs onto the deck._

"_Yes- of course." Her voice trembled slightly, as if the very idea had not occurred to her. "I am a pirate lord. They would not dare…"_

"_I have known pirates to dare far more than to make advances on a single unarmed woman locked in a cell." _

_Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. Perhaps that had been the wrong thing to say. Her independent nature was evidently flaring up, her lacklustre eyes smouldering with sudden passion. "I am hardly helpless, James. I am a Pirate Lord now, no longer the delicate girl you pine after."_

_He had never considered her such, but he made no move to contradict her words as it would only end badly for him. She would never listen- never had, when she got into such a mood. Without another word, he began ushering the crew of the Empress along the ropes that connected them to the Dutchman, Elizabeth refusing to leave despite his insistence until all of her men had left the ship. James looked away from her as he leaned against the wood of the ship, trusting the breeze would carry his words to her. "Do not go to Shipwreck cove. Beckett knows about the meeting of the Brethren."_

"_It's too late to earn my forgiveness," she snapped, and for a moment silence lingered. _

"_I had nothing to do with your father's death. That doesn't absolve me of my other sins." And what sins they were. If she could not forgive him for something he had not done, there was hardly hope of redemption now. Hardly any reason at all to tell her of all his shortcomings. But he had promised her father, and he took a few deep breaths to steady his unsteady voice. _

"_Come with us," she said suddenly, interrupting him before he could begin._

_He turned around to fix her with a shocked expression._

"_James, come with me."_

_He didn't know what to say. Her honey eyes told him that she regretted her previous rash words. She looked so torn, the fire having died out to leave only charred remains. So forlorn...so alone. _

"_Go, I will follow," he told her._

"_You're lying." He wasn't. But she had to be completely out of danger before he could even begin to contemplate leaving the ship. And Bootstrap was coming._

"_Our destines have been entwined, Elizabeth," he whispered, "But never joined." Until now._

xxxx

Up until now, James had always considered himself an extremely patient man.

Waiting had never been a problem for him before; he was outwardly as calm and composed as always. But it was so hard to watch the hours pass by; only the crescent moon's slow course in the sky gave any indication that time was still moving. Each minute felt like a year, with his steady breathing providing a harmonic accompaniment to the constant, unchanging song of the crickets. Though he kept telling himself that it was no different than any other time he had waited, the calm before the battle when he would finally deliver the killing stroke upon his mortal enemy, his heart knew that he was simply lying. It pounded frantically in his chest, his chest constricting more and more each moment in growing anxiety of the task he had been meaning so long to complete but had never managed to carry through.

Bathed in the glow of the moon, he simply sat on the grass and leaned up against the side of the house, his coat thrown overtop of him like a blanket as he endured the torturously slow hours until daybreak. However difficult it was to restrain himself, James would not even consider calling upon her at such an hour. He would do things appropriately, and a surprise visit from a ghost in the dead of night would hardly classify as proper. A cramp shot through James's legs and he languidly opened his eyes, pushing himself to his feet and stomping at the ground to coax the blood back into his limbs.

He guessed that it must have been about two hours after midnight, for the early morning was at its darkest. He could hardly see as far as the porch railing where he had tied up his horse … and didn't notice the approaching assailant until there was a blade nearly at his throat. Turning around and drawing his weapon in a single movement, his own sword was soon in a similar position on the other's neck, hovering dangerously close to where the jugular artery pulsed beneath the skin.

"The lady of the house does not take kindly to thieves," a quiet voice informed him. The stranger who was swathed in shadow like a cloak, as dark and mysterious as James would certainly appear to him. From what Norrington could gather, his opponent was about a head shorter than he was, wiry and small with a voice to match.

James scowled, though he hardly expected the expression to carry through the darkness. "Then it is a good thing I am not a thief," he returned. Moving deliberately, he removed his sword from the stranger's neck and used it to swat away the offending blade. "But I don't suppose you believe me."

Apparently not, as the first blow came crashing down onto his sword.

"In all fairness, I should warn you now: this will not end well for you, sir," Norrington's voice was low, barely above a whisper.

The other paid no heed to his words, lashing out once again. James retaliated this time, the position and ferocity of his strike just dangerous enough to serve as a warning.

The dance began. At first it was slow, each step James took inexorably met with equal precision, every flick of his cutlass countered with a resounding clang of steel meeting steel. They moved from shadow to shadow, if the breaks in the darkness created by the weak moon could have been classified as light. Though he was not yet exerting himself fully, he could tell by the way his attacks were parried that he was not fighting an amateur. James allowed his opponent to determine the speed, returning the flurry of blows with his own.

James flowed from technique to technique, analyzing the situation with a surprising calmness. His fury seemed to always run icy cold, working in perfect synchronization with the liquid fire of his adrenaline to create a concoction that- much like oil in a machine-kept the Admiral working in top form. That was perhaps the thing he admired most about fencing: how it enabled him to pour all of his intensity into a focused point without fear. All of his insecurities paled beneath the vibrancy of his passion, which concentrated as it was could rarely be matched.

Norrington side-stepped neatly; the blow intended for his neck slammed into a tree, shaving a curl of bark from the trunk. Having taken the initiative moments ago, switching from a defensive to an offensive strategy, he had steadily forced the fight onto playing grounds of his choosing. They were now amongst the grove of trees that grew close to the west side of the house, where tree roots and branches provided a new challenge to overcome.

"I have no intention of losing," the stranger panted, stealing a quick glance behind his shoulder to duck an overhanging branch as James forced their duel deeper into the trees. It was a pity, for James had every intention of winning. Tired of toying with the slender combatant, James deftly disarmed his foe, backing him against a tree and placing the pommel of his sword heavily against his temple. The man would be extremely sore upon awaking.

"You don't want to do that," the stranger warned.

"Why not?" James insisted, eyes narrowing.

"I am the Pirate King of the Brethren Court. If you touch a single hair on my head, I promise you will not survive the next fortnight."

James's sword nearly clattered to the ground. So much for propriety. "Elizabeth?" he exclaimed in surprise, immediately removing his weapon from her head.

"Who are you?" she demanded in a breathless whisper, trying to peer up at him through the darkness. "I could swear that I know your voice." After a moment, she shook her head furiously. "I must be dreaming." Grabbing her sword from its place by her feet, she pushed herself from the tree and brushed past him. "Or I'm going absolutely mad!" she shouted, breaking out of the grove and onto clear ground.

Norrington finally found his voice. "Elizabeth, I assure you, you're not mad! Or dreaming!" He hurried after her, grabbing her by the shoulder. She immediately stiffened beneath his touch, stopping dead in her tracks. "I have to tell you something," he informed her.

"No. Don't even start. I won't listen."

"It's important."

"I don't care. It will just end up like every other time. It seems so real, like you're really here… but then I'll wake up and be worse off for it. Why can't I just forget you, James?"

"Do you want to forget me?"

"Sometimes," she admitted slowly. Silence lapsed for a moment, and she finally turned to face him as if to say something else. She moved her hand to his chest, letting it brush momentarily against the cloth of his jacket before wrenching herself away. "Oh, now you've got me started! Just go away and leave me in peace," her voice quavered as if she was fighting back tears. "Please, James," she implored, "no more words."

He hadn't planned on speaking.

Instead, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

Xxxx

_He kissed her; it was as simple as that._

_And yet, it was somehow more important than he had ever dreamed it could be. It was the first step forward: the one that he had never dared to take. He hated himself in __that moment; for__ waiting so long, _

_for never telling her how much he loved her, _showing _her how much he loved her… for not being the man she deserved. But he was kissing her now, and that was all that mattered._

_He just wished he could feel it._

_xxxx_

He could feel her lips against his- timid at first, but soon taking from him everything he was able to give. Pulling her closer, he wrapped his arms around her. One of his hands curled around her slender waist, the fingers of his other splayed across her back. He was intoxicated by her touch, dizzy off her scent and her taste. He found himself unable to stop even as his lungs screamed for air, pulling away only when they threatened to send him crashing to the ground if he did not comply.

He needed her, just as desperately and unapologetically as she needed him. More than breath, more than life. Shudders racked his body as her hands found his face in the darkness; she slid her fingers along the line of his jaw. "You're alive," she whispered, pulling his head down to meet hers in a gentle kiss. The taste of salt told him she was crying.

"I am now." He spoke against her mouth, confident that even if the sound of his voice was lost in the night, she would be able to read the wealth of meaning off of his lips. She hummed in contentment and leaned against his chest, murmuring some quiet statement that did not quite reach his ears. After a moment, she asked again, this time louder.

"How?"

His heart skipped a beat and his mouth went dry. He had momentarily forgotten the reason he had come. Ashamed, he pulled back from Elizabeth's embrace. Her hands slid from his face to hang limply by her sides. How, indeed.

"James…" She sounded worried now. Perhaps for good reason. "…what aren't you telling me?"

He wondered how terrible she thought his reason was, if the story he would relate to her would surpass her expectations or fall tame in comparison. If she would be relieved or appalled. But it didn't matter, because he would tell her nevertheless. He had solemnly vowed both to himself and to Governor Swann that he would. There was no backing out now. Resigned, James decided he would face the consequences of his actions.

He folded his hands behind his back, averting his eyes from Mrs. Turner, and staring intently down at the ground with an almost uncharacteristic timidity. He felt somehow exposed around her as if all his faults- which were so easily hidden behind a brocaded uniform and a powdered wig- were suddenly laid bare for examination.

_James Norrington, what has the world done to you? _

It had forced him to come to terms with himself, a fact he both resented and respected very much. It had made a pirate out of a man.

He licked his lips, bracing himself for what needed to come. Flicking his gaze back up, Norrington straightened his posture, throwing his shoulders back and assuming a rigid military stance. Instinct was the only protection he had left. " Elizabeth..." he started tenderly, before checking himself. He changed his tone, desperate to separate his raging emotions from his words and keep them from interfering with what he needed to say.

" Elizabeth, I have a confession to make. I've done some things in my life that I regret, but this one perhaps most of all. It's the reason I'm still alive today... but I could not tell you if it was worth the cost I have paid- and perhaps always will have to pay."

Yes, he had done a lot of things he regretted. He would never regret his love for her, however, and it was that fact which made it so incredibly difficult for him to tell her of his misgivings.

"You may never realize how complete my guilt is concerning this matter and how hard I am willing to work to attain forgiveness, but that is not the point. The point is that I have gone against myself. I have used the Aztec curse for my own personal benefits. I willingly submitted myself to hell on earth, and for 

nothing." He paused before speaking once more. "I want you to know that I am sorry. For becoming a pirate... and for sacrificing myself to become so."

_James Norrington, what has the world done to you? _

The world had done a great deal. The world had made a man out of a pirate.

Silence settled between them once more, sparking a tension that weighed heavily on James's shoulders, forcing the navy out of his posture until he settled in a more natural stance. For the moment he was glad of the darkness, for he was unable to see her reaction. As long as he could keep from hearing her, from seeing her, he could imagine that somehow she would accept his actions for what they were and put the past behind them. Though he knew it could never be so, it was what he yearned for with all his being.

"You're not..." she trailed off, clearing the tremor out of her voice, "… like that now, are you?" In the dim moonlight he could see her put her pale fingers to her lips, unsure what to make of their kiss. Evidently wondering if she had been kissing a dead man.

Swallowing hard, he shook his head, only managing to choke out a quiet 'no' after a long moment. Never again.

"So, is that how you became Commodore?" she inquired, her voice turning from shocked to irate as she continued on. "You survived all the greatest battles while your comrades fell around you, is that it?"

James recoiled as if struck. "Wrong." It was only the _Dauntless_. And that had been enough. "I only touched the coins after-"

"-after I broke your heart?" James was shocked that she had noticed, however obvious it may have been. She had never seemed to have been aware of his wounds before, never seemed to care, and yet her words carried such emotion in them that James thought she might have torn her own heart out somewhere in the process of shattering his. "So it's my fault, and you've come to flaunt it?"

"No, Elizabeth. I would never-"

"There were a lot of things I thought you would never do, James." Without another word, she drew her sword again.

xxxx

_He drew his sword._

_In the end, what had happened between him and Elizabeth didn't matter. She was still on the Dutchman. He was an Admiral, she a Pirate Lord. Bootstrap was still coming._

_The look in his eyes commanded her to leave, and she clambered up onto the rope, needing no further instruction. He did not have time to dwell on the prickling feeling that shot along his spine, emanating from the look she had given him when he had pulled away from their kiss. One of revulsion… or revelation._

_Bootstrap was coming, and James pulled out his pistol when it seemed his sword was not enough to dissuade the crazed seaman. "Stand down. That's an order!" he snapped. He stole a look behind him. Elizabeth was not nearly far enough away from the _Dutchman_. If the alarm was raised, she would never make it._

"_That's an order. That's an order. Part of the crew, part of the ship. Part of the crew, part of the ship." Mad babbling. _

"_Steady, man!"_

"_Part of the crew, part of the ship. All hands, prisoner escape!"_

"_Belay that!" James shouted. There was nothing he could do now. Except become a distraction. Turning around, deliberately dropping his sword-arm to his side as he raised his pistol, James aimed at the thick _

_rope that bound the ships together. With deadly precision, he pulled the trigger, sending Elizabeth toppling to the ocean, but free. _

_Bootstrap stabbed him, and he was pushed against the rail by the sheer force put behind the attack. The Admiral was dead: it was the only commotion that would keep Elizabeth from being hunted down._

_xxxx_

James felt as if his very soul was being hunted down by Elizabeth.

Her sword fell upon his again and again, although her blows were faster and more passionate than those of their previous fight. He dodged and parried where he could, completely stunned by this sudden turn of events. She offered no explanation for herself; she only continued to frantically pound away at his blade with her own. Eventually, she would hit him. It was inevitable, because he almost wanted her to. To give him some excuse to act, instead of just taking her abuse in silence. Or because maybe the sight of his blood would remind her that he was just a man, neither the monster nor the deity she had always seen him as.

"Fight," she demanded.

He would not. He simply continued to dance back from her fury, retreating where he had always advanced, deflecting where he would have struck. She had always been wild, unpredictable, and with her nerves this frayed there was nothing to do but wait out the storm.

"Coward," she spat, aiming a low slash at his knees. "I hate you."

He deflected her blow with a well angled blade, causing her arm to overextend and send her toppling off balance, nearly spilling her to the ground. "Do you?" When her temper cooled, would she remember his arms around her?

"Yes." Or would she simply remember his treachery?

"Do you really, Elizabeth?"

A small hesitation this time, the silence punctuated with the clash of metal upon metal. Finally, "Yes."

James 's hopes plummeted. It seemed foolish that he should have let them escalate in the first place, but he had never learned from his mistakes when Elizabeth was involved. She was his undoing.

"Then I will leave," he said suddenly, and sheathed his sword just as she plunged hers forwards into the soft flesh of his arm. Her timing had been perfect. A second earlier and James would have caught her weapon on the edge of his blade as he slid it into his scabbard; a second later and she would have completely missed. Hissing through his teeth, he stole a glance down to the wound. It was nearly down to the bone, and it burned like fire.

Elizabeth's sharp gasp overpowered his growl of pain. She had been lying. Obviously, she did not hate him. Carefully holding Elizabeth's sword arm so that he was in complete control of her otherwise motionless body, for she was too busy staring at the blood colouring her weapon, James yanked the point of the blade out of his arm, clapping his hand over the laceration to staunch the bleeding.

"You idiot!" she cried after a long moment of silence, dropping her weapon and rushing to his side. He could hear the concern colouring her voice. "Why did you do that? I wasn't actually going to stab you!"

He grunted his almost amusement at the irony of her intent as Elizabeth practically dragged him up the steps of her porch and into her house. She scuffled around in the darkness for a lamp and lit it, holding it up to his arm. James looked down at his hand; it was slick with blood, beads of the crimson liquid beginning to gather on his fingertips and roll down his skin in a slow descent before crashing to her floor. "It's nothing to worry about," he growled through clenched teeth. "Get me some thread and a needle and I'll leave as I promised."

"I am _not_ letting you sew yourself up, James. Sit down."

Rolling his eyes and holding himself back from saying something he would regret, Norrington made his way over to the chair Elizabeth pointed to. What was she playing at? Her mood swings were grating on his already tender nerves. He could understand, to some degree, why she would hate him… but saying that she did when she really did not was something he was unable to comprehend. Why did she want to hate him? Or did she?

"You never broke it, you know," Elizabeth mused as she re-entered the room with a bottle of alcohol and a suture. "Your promise not to hurt me. I hardly thought it would stand if I were threatening you, or attacking you."

"You presume to know me too well, Elizabeth."

"Yes, I suppose I do," she sighed. "But that is hardly the case."

James took the bottle from her when she handed it to him, downing a long swig of the acerbic liquid before sloshing it over his arm. He grimaced when she applied the needle, but otherwise remained steady. "Thank you," he murmured, keeping his face turned away from her, his eyes locked on the far wall. Attempting to avoid looking at the wound really did nothing to relieve the pain, and it was the same way with her. Yet it did not keep him from trying. He wondered how long he could keep his eyes off of her.

"You're a good man, James. An admirable man." Something twisted in the pit of his stomach when she spoke. She still presumed to know him too well. He hated to correct her, yet it was his duty.

"Far from it. I am a liar," he confessed, though he doubted it was very surprising.

"Can you not be both?" she asked quietly. "Like a-"

"-a good man and a pirate?" James winced slightly, and not just because Elizabeth drove the needle through his skin again. "Like Mr. Turner? Like Captain Sparrow?" It was a discussion that had too often haunted his thoughts.

"Like me."

"You are not a man, Elizabeth," he reminded her gently, downing a second mouthful of the alcohol. Although she _was_ a pirate, albeit the fairest one of the lot. "Are you nearly finished?" He certainly hoped that she was. He could take no more of the exquisite torture that racked every inch of him simply by being in her presence. It was too much like the life he had suffered through… standing beneath the sun and feeling no warmth, on a ship without the breath of the wind on his neck. Beside an angel and never able to touch.

"Yes, I'm nearly done. But what is your hurry? Even you can not ride in the darkness." She pulled the last stitch tight, cutting off the excess thread. James waited until she had tied it off before standing. He stumbled slightly, the sudden movement along with the drink he had consumed and the loss of blood making him unsteady on his feet.

"I will leave at first light." He headed towards the door and even go so far as to push it open, letting the cool night air rush inside. He had promised that he would leave, but first… he needed to know. "Do you forgive me?"

_Elizabeth, I love you._ It was the message hiding behind the façade, the one that leaped the gap between them, springing from his eyes and boring into her very soul.

" Y-yes."

"Do you love me?" The true question was finally translated into words, escaping before he could even hope to close his mouth.

She did not answer for an agonizingly long moment. The house was so quiet that James could hear the crackling of the tiny flame in the lamp as the wind whipped around it. Scowling, he cursed himself inwardly. Inevitably, he knew that it would come to this. It always had and always would. She did not hate him, but he constantly pushed for more until he asked her something so preposterous she could not deign to answer. He turned to leave.

A small hand brushed against the sleeve of his jacket, immediately causing his knees to lock up, commanding his body to freeze. "I never thought you would ask." Elizabeth's breath tickled the back of his neck, instigating waves of goose bumps to break out over his skin. "But then again there were a lot of things I thought you would never do, James." She grabbed his arm tightly, her lips brushing against his ear as she implored him for something he was all too willing to give. "But I want you to do one of them again: kiss me?"

He did.

xxxx

"_James Norrington__, do you fear death?"_

_He did. But he did not answer._

_If James had not been burdened beneath the curse of the Aztec gold, he was sure that he would be able to smell the stench of rotting fish wafting off of Jones's breath, taste the steady drip of salt water that dripped from the creature's tentacles and onto his face. Already he could imagine how his skin would recoil… if only it could have. _

_The captain was leaning so close to him, triumph displayed across his inhuman features. He had all but promised that James would join his crew, and he was sure that he would win. But he was wrong. James did fear death, but unlike most, he had done something to protect himself from it. Unfortunately, the prices he had to pay were far from worth the results, but for the moment he was save. Infuriatingly unshakable. _

_He stabbed Jones._

_What would be a fatal to any other man was hardly a distraction for the Captain. Little did he know that he was not the only one laughing at death._

xxxx

She was far from a distraction. She was an all-encompassing truth. She haunted his waking thoughts, his slumbering mind and being so close to her was nearly unbearable. How could he have done anything but comply when she asked him to kiss her? But still doubt plagued him. Was she simply lonely? Was he setting himself up for another spectacular failure? Because he didn't know if he could survive this time. There was no numbing relief; only the pain that would last his entire life. "Do you forgive me?" he asked quietly, somehow finding the time to choke the words out between the barrage of kisses Elizabeth threw at him. His mind was shutting down, completely under her control.

She pulled away and she found the air she needed to say, "I love you, James."

His heart nearly stopped. He had heard her pronounce those words a thousand times in his dreams, but now that he heard them he could not believe them. The scores across his heart were still bleeding too freely for him to completely trust her. "You love-"

"I love you," she affirmed. Then, as if sensing his worry, "No conditions. No requests." She squeezed his arm affectionately.

Her affection had found his wound, spurring it to protest rather violently at the contact. He gasped, wincing. Pulling away, his brow furrowed slightly and he swallowed hard. "What about Turner?" he asked now that he could find enough air. Though admittedly the man was the last person he wished to inquire about, it was a subject that had to be brought up. "What about your husband?" The word was bitter on his tongue and he turned away. "You're married. I should go."

"He's dead, James! Will is dead!" Her voice cracked beneath the weight of her emotion. He halted before the door again, captivated. "He can come on land once every ten years. That's all! Maybe not dead, but he is certainly not alive."

"You accepted his proposal."

"Until death do we part. It was his choice, and he made it. He chose his father. He chose the sea."

"Have I not also made my choice?" James asked pointedly.

"Yes," she admitted. "But your choice has always been me." She stared at his boots. "I just never realized it before."

"Elizabeth-"

"I love you." She forgave him.

"-will you marry me?"

xxxx

His real death had been a slow process, spanning the course of his lifetime. Instead of one set event and time, his downfall had happened slowly. As a tree being felled in the forest, he had been chopped away, a little at a time. Small deeds, little decisions, minute fears and woes, each contributed to his eventual defeat. The first and final axe-strokes had been plunged by Elizabeth Turner.

But now he was alive.

Because of Elizabeth Norrington.


End file.
